


The Future is Like Chicago

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: F/M, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Chicago Wentz has a mommy, a daddy, and a Patrick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Future is Like Chicago

Patrick touches his fingertips to the crown of his head, looking sadly into the brightly lit bathroom mirror. His face is thinner than it has been for a long time- healthy, pink- but his hair is, too, and Patrick’s pretty sure he’d be happier fat with hair than medium-sized without. There’s a crash outside the door, and he yanks on a hat before Chicago crashes through, all legs and arms and elbows and ugly paisley hoodie. 

Chicago grins up at him, and he looks like a paler, blonder version of Pete- teeth too big, eyes crinkled in the corners. He’s almost fourteen and has his father’s unfortunate stature. He also has his father’s inherent charm, and Patrick can do nothing but grin back.

“Chi, do I want to ask what you’re doing?” He asks fondly. He’d always been a sucker for Pete’s ridiculous ideas, and his tolerance for Chicago’s is even weaker.

“Maybe? Dad approved it.” Chicago picks himself up from the floor, dusting off his hoodie.

“That isn’t really comforting.” Patrick smiles at the laugh Chicago lets out- it’s full and open, thankfully more like Ashlee’s than Pete’s- and shoos him back out into the hallway. “Where is your dad, anyway?”

“I think he’s on the phone with Uncle Travie.” Chicago scratches at the back of his neck, toeing a collapsed pile of plaques guiltily. Pete’s old slip-n-slide is out, and Patrick doesn’t have to try too hard to connect the dots. “Um. Can we talk tonight? Like. Me and you?”

Chicago’s always been an open book, his heart on his sleeve. He hasn’t developed his father’s masks and fake, brittle smiles, and Patrick hopes that he never does, that he never has to. He sees the scuff of Chicago’s heel against the hall, the twitch in his hands, and knows that he’s got something important and potentially embarrassing to ask. Patrick squirms- he’s hoping that this talk won’t be The Talk.

“Yeah, Chi,” he says, laughing a little into the full-bodied embrace Chicago yanks him into. They’re the same height. Patrick’s chest aches a little. Time’s gone by so fast. “You know I’m here for you, like, whenever, right?” Chicago pulls back and grins- all Wentz- and the tension’s gone from him.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping back onto the slip-n-slide. “Thanks, Patrick.”

\---

_The divorce came slowly, inevitably. Patrick watched on the sidelines, sat up night after night, phone between his shoulder and ear, coffee in hand, as Pete talked to him about Ashlee, about missing her even though she was there. About missing himself even though he was there, too. Moving back to LA was less plan and more impulse. Patrick’s glad he followed his gut._

_There was no fault- no cheating, no lying, no breakdowns. They just. Grew apart. Fell out of love with one another. Patrick witnessed the divorce papers with Jessica, signed his name where he was supposed to, held Ashlee’s hand as much as he held Pete’s. When they broke away to meet with their individual lawyers, Ashlee pulled him aside and cried on his shoulder._

_“Please,” she said, face pressed to Patrick’s jacket, eyeliner smeared down her cheeks. “Please, don’t let him hurt himself.” Patrick wrapped her up in his arms and hugged her. He could feel the beat of her heart against his chest, the hitching of her breath, and his heart hurt._

_“Shh,” he whispered to her, fingers in her hair. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay, Ashlee.” And it felt like Pete in his arms, shaking and fragile and tired, and he wondered why- why, why,_ why _\- it didn’t work, why Pete couldn’t have her, why she couldn’t have Pete._

_“Thank you,” Ashlee said, pulling back, wiping at her eyes. She sniffed, smiling sadly. “For everything.”_

_“If you ever-“_

_“Yeah.” She kissed him on the cheek and left, headed back to her lawyer._

_When Pete came back out, he was pale, buried inside his hoodie. He settled down onto one of the hard backed chairs of the office and leaned into Patrick’s side. Patrick murmured the same condolences, held him just as tight as he’d held Ashlee. Pete didn’t let go, and Patrick didn’t move away._

_“We’re going to share custody of Chi,” Pete said into Patrick’s chest, voice thick and tired. “Two weeks with Ash, two weeks with me. Shared holidays.” Patrick rubbed his thumb over the nape of Pete’s neck and nodded. Chicago, tiny three-year-old Chicago with his baby-toddles and stilted, stuttery sentences._

_Ashlee bought a new home, and Patrick helped her move her things from place to place, acted as the muscle as Pete drove. Pete sold their house and moved in with Patrick._

_The house felt. Full. More like a home, like the apartment that they were years and years away from. Pete’s shoes sat under Patrick’s hats, sat on top of Chicago’s Tonka trucks. They changed the guest room into Chicago’s room, added a second bed to Patrick’s room for Pete. It was natural, really, even though there was another guest room down the hall._

\---

Pete is, in fact, on the phone with Travis. He’s in the office, feet propped up on his messy desk, leaned back on his chair. He’s forty-two, but he still rolls his chair back and forth, knees bending and flexing as he pulls himself back in. Time has hit his eyes and mouth, laugh lines deep in his dark skin, and there’s steadily graying hair at his temples. He’s still too handsome, still laughs too loud, and still throws himself headfirst into trouble. His bad knee has been giving him trouble lately, and Patrick knows it kills him to admit it. 

Patrick closes the door behind himself and settles onto the couch, stretching his legs out on it. His sweatpants are thin at the knees, loose around the wait. Sunday morning wear. Pete grins at him and finishes his conversation with a quick _gotta go_ , hanging up before Travis can answer. He drops his legs from the desk and rolls his way over to the couch.

“Hey,” he says, crawling from chair to couch, knees on either side of Patrick’s thighs. Patrick runs his hands up his back, under the worn tour shirt Pete’s wearing. It still amazes him, years later, that he can do this- that Pete’s his, and that this is okay. 

“Hey,” he says back, smiling wide. Pete kisses his lower lip, and Patrick turns it into a real kiss before Pete can back away. Pete tastes like sugary coffee, and Patrick wonders if he slept at all. The meds have gone, but the insomnia hasn’t. “Your son’s playing human bowling in the hallway.” Pete laughs. His hands slide up Patrick’s chest, wrap around his shoulders. He leans down to press a kiss to Patrick’s jaw, and it’s as much teeth as lip.

“Guess that means we have some alone time,” he says, and his hand slides back down until it’s over Patrick’s stomach, resting, waiting. He rocks his hips against Patrick’s lazily, and he’s half hard against Patrick’s thigh.

“You’re a dirty old man, Wentz,” Patrick says breathily as Pete’s hand slips into his sweatpants.

“You love me.” Pete licks his cheek, and, even as he wipes at the wet spot irritably, Patrick thinks _yes, yes I do_ , and the spot in his chest that’s saved for Pete feels full and right and content. There’s another crash outside, and Patrick bites down on his wrist to keep quiet. Pete laughs softly.

\---

_One night, six months after the divorce, Pete didn’t come home. He didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t tell Patrick where he’d gone at all. Patrick sat up until ten with Chicago and stared at the DVD player’s clock anxiously, worry building in his chest as each hour passed by._

_He had managed to get Chicago upstairs, tucked into bed and at least pretending to be asleep, when headlights caught against the windows, casting shadows over the carpet. Patrick closed the door to Chicago’s room quietly and rushed down the stairs, heart in his throat, fists clenched._

_The car wasn’t Pete’s SUV, and Patrick felt like he was going to throw up, sick and scared and pleading_ not again, please, god, not again _. Someone he didn’t recognize stepped out of the drivers seat. He pulled open the back door, and Pete tumbled out onto the driveway, face to the gravel, hands curled at his sides, legs tangled up in the backseat._

_Relief flooded up through Patrick’s chest as he ran forward, skidding to a stop next to the driver. He gagged against the smell of liquor, and the relief turned heavy in his chest, sinking into anger. He thanked the man and hauled Pete out of the car, staggering under his weight._

_He waited for the car to pull away, for the headlights to fade. And then. And then, he slugged Pete in the mouth. Pain exploded across his knuckles, blood welled up slowly in the cracks. Pete fell back, an ungraceful sprawl, head bouncing off the drive. He stared up, eyes wide, mouth bleeding._

_“Patr-“_

_“What the_ fuck _, Pete?” Patrick hissed, crouching down next to him. He clenched and unclenched his fist, the pain in his knuckles keeping him from striking again. “Where the fuck_ were _you? Why didn’t you fucking call?_ Why the fuck are you drunk _?”_

_Pete’s lip, bloodied and already swollen, trembled, and then he was curling into himself, face in his hands, crying like Patrick hadn’t seen in years. Patrick sighed and knelt down, wrapping Pete up in his arms. Pete coughed and sobbed and sniveled against Patrick’s neck, too loud in the quiet night._

_He was talking, babbling about_ I can’t, I’ll ruin him, please don’t let me ruin his life, please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. _Patrick rocked him, shushed him. He felt sick again, and he could hear the faint sound of music from Chicago’s window. Pete slumped against him, hands tight in Patrick’s t-shirt._

_“Pete, hey, look at me.” Patrick waited until Pete’s eyes were on him, dark and wet and red. He wiped the tear tracks away with his thumb, pressed their foreheads together gently. “You are the best dad any kid could ever have, okay? You’re. You’re fucking_ fantastic _, alright? But, Pete, man, I swear to god if you do this again? I’ll tell Ashlee, and she’ll take him away.”_

_“Patrick-“_

_“No.” Patrick pushed himself up, dragging Pete along with him. Pete wavered, tipping forward until he was heavy against Patrick’s chest. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”_

_They stumbled upstairs to their room. Patrick fell into his bed, weak and exhausted. Pete crawled in next to him, all warmth against his back and arms around his chest. After that, he never really left._

\---

Patrick pushes up against Pete’s hand, back sticking to the couch cushions. Pete kisses his temple, licks down the curve of his neck. His hand tightens around Patrick’s dick, his wrist twisting the way he knows Patrick likes, and Patrick comes in his sweatpants.

He sinks bonelessly into couch, ready to pull Pete down on top of him, when Chicago bounds through the door. Patrick yanks his shirt down and Pete groans. Patrick mouths _I’ll make it up to you later_ as Pete covers himself with the afghan from the back of the couch.

“Dad, are we gonna go soon?” Chicago’s holding a soccer ball under one arm, his ugly hoodie tossed over one shoulder. His knees are red under his long shorts-legs from the slip-n-slide. 

“Shit. Yeah, let me change and we’ll go.” Pete leans down to steal a quick kiss before hoping off the couch, rushing out of the room. Patrick’s face feels hot. He hopes fervently that Chicago hasn’t picked up on what they had been doing. 

“You gonna come?” Chicago drapes himself over the arm of the couch, resting his chin on the ball. 

“Not today.” Patrick sits up, wincing at the wetness in his pants. “Hey, take it easy on your dad, yeah? Don’t let him get too-“ He waves his hand, and Chicago grins.

“Yeah. I’ll be good.”

Pete’s voice echoes down the hall, and Chicago’s up, pressing a quick kiss to Patrick’s cheek before rushing down the stairs and out the door.

\---

_The first time Pete kissed Patrick- a real kiss, an honest kiss- was at the park. Chicago was four, rambunctious and loud and charming. They were barbecuing, stuffed away into a private little corner, celebrating Chicago’s entrance into pre-K. If the date was the same as the divorce, Patrick said nothing._

_Chicago was on the swings with a little girl, chattering away about his dog and his dad and his Patrick. Pete, in his_ save a tree, eat a beaver _apron, stood dutifully at the grill, watching Chicago more than the burgers._

_The air was hot with summer, the smell of the lake peaceful. The voices of other families were soft around them, close enough to be heard, far enough away to be unobtrusive. All three of them smelled strongly of sunblock, but, even so, there was already a faint stain of red across Patrick’s nose._

_Patrick stretched out on the bench of the picnic table, his swim trunks scratching faintly across the wood. He was going to get a nasty burn on the back of his neck, and the farmer’s tan would be brutal, but Chicago refused to swim without him, and Pete had pouted until Patrick gave in._

_“Hey, no, Chicago- don’t push,” Patrick called, pushing off of the bench. Chicago looked over at him guiltily and muttered an apology. The little girl sniffled and called him a jerk before running off. Chicago left the swingset to join Pete and Patrick on the grill deck, curling up against Patrick’s legs. Patrick slipped him a taffy from the table. “Why’d you push her?”_

_“She said I’m weird because I got a dad and a mom and a Patrick.” Chicago gnawed on his taffy, little face scrunched up with the effort. Patrick winced. He’d wondered how long it would take for that to come up._

_“She’s just jealous she doesn’t have a Patrick,” Pete said, presenting the overcooked burgers with a flourish. Chicago crawled up onto the bench, pressing up against Patrick as he reached for the macaroni and cheese, hands still sticky with candy._

_“I am only one,” Patrick agreed, wrangling Chicago long enough to clean his hands off with a wet-nap. Pete sat next to him, and Patrick was getting used to being on the inside of Wentz sandwiches by now._

_“I wouldn’t share you, anyway.” Pete stuffed a carrot into his mouth, crunching on it loudly. He laughed when Chicago mimicked him._

_“Your father has bad manners,” Patrick said around a grin. “Try not to use him as a good example.”_

_“You love me,” Pete crowed. When Patrick turned to look at him, Pete kissed him, sweet and full and straight on the mouth. Chicago snuck taffies as Patrick reciprocated._

\---

Patrick changes out of his wet sweatpants and tosses them into the hamper. Reluctantly, he pulls on a pair of jeans and swaps his sleep shirt for a button down. He’s got a brunch with one of the new bands on DecayDance and, after that, he’s meeting with Gabe to catch up. 

The house is quiet without the Wentz half, and it’s nice enough, but Patrick misses them a little already. Their presence is every where- Pete’s cloth samples and Chicago’s sketches spread haphazardly across the table, shoes in three sizes unmatched and carelessly strewn across the living room, the scuffmarks on the walls and kitchen floors. Patrick’s getting used to chaos, and he doesn’t know what to do in its absence anymore.

He locks up and settles into his Honda. The demo for the band- Neon something something- is playing, and Patrick makes notes in his head as he listens to it. The rawness of it, the unpolished chords and beats, makes him remember nights crammed into the van, long days spent eating too little and drinking too much coffee. 

Fall Out Boy hasn’t played a show in seven years. Between Chicago and Joe’s little girl and Andy’s rapidly declining health, it seems like the best to do their own things- to let Fall Out Boy rest. It kills him, sometimes, and he sees how it kills Pete, too.

\---

 

_“Come on, Ash.” Pete kicked his feet, bouncing them back against his desk. Patrick rolled his eyes and went back to playing War with six-year-old Chicago. Chicago laid down a jack over Patrick’s three and gathered the cards up gleefully. “It’s the last tour. I won’t get the chance to- Yeah, I know, I know. No-_ Yes _we’ll have our own bus, I’m not totally stupid, y’know?” Patrick snorted. Chicago copied him._

_“What’s this one?” Patrick asked, holding up a card._

_“Six!” Chicago bounced in his chair, too long hair falling into his face. Patrick grinned and laid the card down. He was so damn_ proud _of this kid, all the time._

_“You are a goddess and your music is far superior to my own,” Pete said flatly. “Patrick still has you by, like, ten million, though.” Pete laughed at Ashlee’s response, kicking his feet back again. “We can admire him together.” Patrick flushed and raised his eyebrows, looking from Chicago to Pete. “I’m getting dirty looks now.” A pause, another burst of laughter. “Totally worth it.”_

_“Will it be worth it when you’re sleeping on the couch?” Patrick asked over Chicago’s head. It was an empty threat, of course, but it still made Pete’s jaw snap shut._

_“You are a horrible person, Patrick Vaughn Stump,” Pete said, aghast. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Dude, seriously though, thank you. I’ll, like, send you videos of Patrick playing daddy. It’ll be awesome.”_

_Pete said his goodbyes and set his phone on the desk before leaping off and gathering Chicago up in his arms. Chicago laughed and kicked his little legs as Pete swung him around, squealing at an ear-shattering decibel. Pete hefted hum up onto his shoulders. The strain of it was clear, even through his loud, obnoxious laugh._

_“Ready to go on tour, little dude?”_

_That night, when Patrick crawled into bed, Pete curled up quietly next to him, face pressed to Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick held him, silent._

\---

Gabe’s in the diner when Patrick pulls up, a half hour late, neon cap turned backwards over his curly hair. He’s toned it down over time, but he’s still Gabe Saporta through and through. He wraps Patrick up in a hug that’s too tight to be comfortable. Patrick hugs back just as tightly. It’s been too long.

“Your hat is hideous,” Gabe says cheerily. Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Mine is uglier, but at least it’s creative.”

“Your face is creative.”

“I’ll send my mother your thanks.” Gabe winks dramatically. “Oh, hey. Speaking of mothers.” He pulls his wallet out and flips through the photos inside, whooping victoriously when he finds the one he’s looking for. He hands it over smugly.

It’s a photo of Vicky. She’s pale, smiling softly into the camera, one hand over her distended belly. A young girl- Kathleen, their first child- stands next to her, grinning toothily. Patrick shakes his head and hands it back.

“You are a brave man,” he says, awed. Gabe laughs.

“Where’s the little lady?”

“Playing soccer with Chicago.” Patrick takes his coffee from the waitress, wrapping his hands around the mug. “He’s going to try out for junior varsity.”

“Isn’t Pete a little old for JV?” Gabe bats his eyelashes at the waitress as she passes. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Anyone ever call you a douchebag?”

“Just you, baby.” Gabe shoves his wallet back into his pants pocket. Underneath the wide smiles and light voice, he looks tired. His eyes are dark, bruised underneath from too little sleep. He’s skinnier than ever, cheekbones raised, wrists thin under the sleeves of his jacket. Patrick recognizes the look, and, as Gabe sinks down into his seat, he thinks for the first time ever that Gabe looks old.

\---

_Chicago caught pneumonia at seven. His tiny chest rocked with his heavy, wet coughs, his big eyes red and damp. His nose was rubbed raw at the bottom from too many tissues, and he cried every time someone tried to wipe away the snot that didn’t seem to have an end. The hair across his pale forehead was greasy, stuck to his skin with sweat. He looked small, tucked into the hospital bed with quilts from home._

_Pete’s eyes were as red as Chicago’s, jaw set tightly as he held his son’s tiny hand, curled up in the chair closest to the bed. He’d wrapped himself up in hoodies and scarves, but his other hand still shook. Patrick brought him cup after cup of stale hospital coffee, heart thudding low in his chest._

_“Oh, baby.” Ashlee dropped her purse onto the dresser and hurried to the bed. She pressed her lips to Chicago’s forehead, fingers curled around the tiny arch of his cheek. “How are you feeling, honey?”_

_“I wanna go home,” Chicago said meekly. He rubbed at his nose with the back of his wrist, jostling the IV tube. Patrick looked away, sick, sinking down onto the floor in front of Pete._

_“I know, baby, I know.” Ashlee sat in the chair opposite, brushing her hair through Chicago’s hair. “Pete, how long-“_

_“He’s been here all day,” Patrick answered. He leaned his head back against the knee closest to him. A hand snuck into his silently._

_“Beating himself up?”_

_“Mmhm.”_

_“You guys do know that I’m right here, right?” Pete asked tightly. His shoulders were stiff, back rigid._

_“The grown-ups are talking, honey,” Ashlee said softly, lips curled at the edges. Patrick felt his stomach clench, the ever-present fear of- of Pete remembering, of Pete falling in love with her again- sinking into him. Pete sank down into his seat. “Do you think you can get him to sleep for a while?”_

_“Probably not,” Patrick answered honestly. “You know how he-“_

_“Excuse me.” A nurse, young and awkward in her scrubs, peeked into the room. “Visiting hours are over in five minutes.”_

_“We’re his parents,” Ashlee said, looking up from Chicago’s pink face._

_“Um.” The nurse looked between Pete and Patrick, her cheeks hot. “I mean for, um, for Mr. Stump.” The hand in Patrick’s tightened painfully, and Patrick cut off the tirade before it could begin by standing._

_“I forgot the time,” he said to the nurse, smiling weakly. “Thank you.” She backed out of the room quietly, head bowed._

_“Patrick,” Pete hissed, tugging on his hand. “You’ve got as much right as I do-“_

_“No, Pete. I don’t.” Patrick rubbed tiredly at his eyes, taking a deep breath._

_“Patrick-“_

_“No, hey.” Patrick scratched at the dirty hair at the nape of Pete’s neck, reaching for his jacket. “Give me the prescription. I’ll stop by CVS on the way home.”_

_“Patrick? Are you leaving?” Chicago sniffled, tired eyes open wide._

_“Yeah, Chi.” Patrick’s chest ached. He swallowed it down as best as he could, more for Pete than Chicago, and leaned down to kiss the boy’s forehead. “I’ll be home when you get there, okay? I love you. Try to get to sleep.”_

_“Love you, too,” Chicago said around a yawn, laying back onto the mattress. Ashlee stood, walking around the bed to hug Patrick tightly._

_“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Patrick hugged her back._

_“Don’t be.”_

\---

At the park, Pete kicks the ball down field and races after it. From the bleachers, Patrick eyes the curve of Pete’s calves, the flat of his bare chest and stomach. He’s stretched out, cheering lazily for both of them. His meeting with Gabe had been cut short, a phone call from Vicky splitting them. 

Chicago cuts Pete off, stealing the ball back with swift footwork. Pete has to scramble to keep up, sneakers squealing on the grass, his breathless laugh echoing across the cool air. Chicago kicks the ball into Pete’s net, throwing his arms up in victory. Patrick cheers, watching Pete bend double to catch his breath. One of Pete’s hands rub at his side, and Patrick makes a note to pull out the heat pack later- Pete’s too stubborn to do it himself. 

Patrick sits up as they climb up the bleachers to meet him, pulling a face when Pete drops down onto his lap. He’s sweaty, hair plastered down to his face, breath still coming heavy. Chicago drops on top of them, knocking Patrick back into the bleacher behind him with a whoosh of air.

“This is kind of gross, guys,” Patrick says, strained around the weight on his stomach. “Also, you’re both heavy. Get off, get off, get off.” Pete and Chicago give him matching cackles- which is horrifying to be on the end of, for sure- before shoving off. 

“Hey, Rick, if you bring Chi home, I’ll pick up dinner.” Pete’s voice is muffled by his shirt as he yanks it on backwards, head popping out with a mess of getting-too-long hair. 

“Pad Thai?”

“Pad Thai,” Pete agrees. As he stands, he leans in to press a quick kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth. “And after dinner entertainment?”

“Maybe.” Patrick nods towards Chicago, who is bouncing the soccer ball from knee to knee. Pete kisses him again before running towards his SUV.

Chicago’s surprisingly quiet on the ride home, legs bouncing in time with the demo, arms folding and unfolding across his chest. His movements are stilted and awkward, and Patrick’s so far away from fourteen that he can’t even pretend to remember what it’s like. The movements are familiar, though, and all signs are pointing to uncomfortable. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, wincing at how loud his voice comes out. Chicago jumps, legs going still. “Did you, y’know, want to talk now?”

And Chicago smiles at him, and Patrick knows that this is exactly how it was meant to be.


End file.
